he sat there telling her some of the truth during the self congratulatory part of the constantly running, invisible documentary of his life presumably filmed by the angels and the ghost of ingmar bergman. the continuity was amazing except for those times when the machine was on the fritz. whole sections of the time he’d lived in idaho were missing, and most of his daughter’s pubescence — and there was that one section during his second marriage that had someone’s entire thumb in the lens. he absolutely never thought of those times though, so it was really a blessing in disguise. trouble was one day, one of the lost sections showed up on the front porch, when his girlfriend was home and dressed for company. she said, how the hell are you ? and showed the section around the house. the lost section said it was comfortable waiting for him in the living room, and, drinking tea out of the girlfriend’s china, told her all about the rape and the photos, about the big n slutty porn and something about tax evasion. the section was calm and pulled no punches. after a while though, he said he couldn’t wait any longer and stiffly stood and walked out of the house. when her boyfriend came home, all he said to the news of the return of the lost chapters was that if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have brought it up. later that night he shoved her awake in the lamplight and with it tight between his thumb and fore finger, snubbed his cigarette butt out on the pink area between her labia and the close canal. lucky for her, the constantly running, invisible documentary of her life had a finicky record button too. she would hurt for a few days, but pain never killed anyone, like he always said.

Linda Ravenswood’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flaming Arrows (Ireland), The Wilshire Review Volume 1 (Los Angeles), The Wilshire Review Volume 2 (Los Angeles), Enigma Magazine (England), Audemus formerly Mount Voices (Los Angeles), Poetry Salzburg Review (University of Salzburg Press, Austria), Relief Magazine ( Illinois, USA) , Opium Magazine (New York), Underground Voices (Los Angeles), ReadThis (University of Montana Press)  and on PBS.  She holds a BFA (Music, Theatre, Fine Art) from The California Institute of the Arts (CalArts) and an MA (Humanities; Emphasis in Creative Writing) from Mount Saint Mary’s College.  She has lived extensively in the US, Ireland and the UK.  She is presently in Los Angeles pursuing her Ph.D.

A lonely little girl, terrified, hugging knees to chest in a solitary corner:
Is he gone? Is she safe?

Each day holds new dangers as she tiptoes across the tightrope of her life,
Lacking the comfort of a safety net below.
One false step and she’ll be gone.

Constant fear has stolen her voice. He knows she’ll never tell.
Who would listen to the halting, hesitant speech of damaged goods?
From the comfort of his safety net, he eyes her tightrope walk
With eager anticipation.

The days and weeks of silence become months and years.
Soon she forgets the value of her voice,
And others, weary with the work of speaking for two
Excuse her silence for shyness at best, rudeness at worst.

Her tightrope, if not comfortable, is at least familiar:
She knows each twist and knot along the way.
By day, she steps with calloused tiptoes across her tightrope;
By night, she curls into a ball and cries the dark away.

One day as she approaches the ladder to her tightrope torture,
She scorns the worn rungs, envying those who, instead of walking a tightrope of terror, fly.
How she longs for the wings to soar.
One last glance at her tightrope tormentor and her decision is firm:
She will fly.

The first flappings of her wings terrify her;
How will she survive in the changeful wind and blinding sunlight of the azure sky?
She almost leaves the dizzying heights.
Others, seeing her plight, do not mock, do not scoff, do not flutter off
But come alongside and help her on her way through the unfamiliar freedom of the air.

As she finds her wings, so too she finds her voice:
“I’d like to tell you my story.”

jsf 11-21-09

I have been a victim of domestic violence beginning with my father. I grew up afraid and had low self esteem. My dad was a different man when I was a child. He was full of rage from the Vietnam war. I hated it when he made me take my clothes off to spank me as the smell of marijuana filled the room. My mom chose to ignore what was happening by staying stoned all the time. I wanted to feel loved but I hated my life, my family and myself. My life took a turn for the worse when I got my first sexual experience at age 14 when sis teen age boys decided to tie me to a pool table and each one got on top of me one at a time while the others watched and cheered. I loathed myself and began to cut myself to make the pain hurt worse on the outside more than the inside. I became promiscuous and out of control until I was forced to slow down because I got pregnant before my 15th birthday. My mom was pro-life so I didn’t have a choice but to keep the baby. My mom didn’t even let me know that I could have placed the baby up for adoption. I wasn’t allowed to come home after my baby was born because my mom was in jail and my dad didn’t want a crying baby do deal with.

Long story short, I ended up marrying my first husband at 17 to an abusive man and an abusive family. I was only able to marry him because I was pregnant with my 2nd baby and the family had religious beliefs. I couldn’t handle the abuse any more and left when I was 20 but they kept my two sons and played hurtful tricks on the kids and I to keep them away. I was only allowed to see my sons if I had sex with him. I ended up attempting suicide and had to be placed in a mental hospital for three months. I was on suicide watch when I met my 2nd husband. He let me live with him after I got out but he was was also an abuser and addicted to drugs. I had my 3rd son with my 2nd husband and when he was 1yrs old and I was 24, I got out and moved in with my new boss whom became husband #3. He was 15 yrs older than me and was kind in the beginning until he and I moved out of state and I was alienated from everyone. He controlled me and hit me now and then. It was the control and intimidation that was my jail for 12 years. I had my fourth son with him and divorced my 3rd husband seven years ago.

Today, I have broken the pattern of being a victim of abuse. I am actually married to a nice man who I almost turned away because my self esteem was so low that I thought he was too good for me. I have been married to him for five years now and three years ago, I got my GED and began college to get a bachelors degree in computer animation. My life long dream since I was a little girl was to become a professional artist. I never thought in this life time that I would ever get the chance. No one ever gave me a chance and they stopped me from becoming better in my life. I am so incredible happy for the first time. It took a long time to not be afraid.

I made this in photo shop and the bodies were hand drawn and painted in Photo shop. I used a Hubble image which reminded me of the Virgin Mary looking down. The people are spiritual images of two people. The man is controlling and abusive pulling her down with him while she is trying to be free of him forever. She is trying to be saved and go into the merciful light. She is no longer with her family and friends. She has passed on but still the controlling forces are fighting to control her and bring her down. So many woman, there is only one way out. Sometimes they are killed by the hands of their abuser and sometimes they end their own lives which is what I almost did just to be free.

I am so blessed today that God had mercy on my soul.

The portraits in “The Daughters of Kali” are women who perform sex acts in photos and videos that populate the world wide web. They are the sex goddesses we desirously worship in the privacy of our own homes, and disenfranchised women who are excluded by society. Here in these paintings I imply the Hindu Goddess Kali as a metaphor of the all consuming aspect of reality for these women. The mythological aspect of their existence as a play of universal energy in eternity. As daughters of Kali, they are sex goddesses who absorb our desires. Their images alone enslave our senses and subdue the collective libido into a state of complacency. But who are these heavenly creatures when they live among us as human beings? They are shadowy figures deprived of identities, and many are victims of the brutal enterprise of human merchandise, often used up and forgotten within a few years. The plight of their existence is a human tragedy in the divine drama. I combine eroticism with horror to illuminate the psychological and physical violence of sex in love’s absence. These paintings explore the shadows cast between our secret desires and moral dilemma.

HEART’S HOPE OF POSSIBILITIES
EARTH SHATTERING PROMISES: VIS-A-VIS!

Heart in life for soul in art.
Far gone conclusions to start thusly so far…
In advances shared for Reason’s Enlightening
Purposes. For transitional goals inherent for
The bottom of dark shadows in silent minds
Exposed.

Breaking these holds… life on earth’s chains
Of events spent asunder of Rights, lain in a
Quagmire of defeat. Thrown aside -as if eyes
Don’t exist to see… freedom’s peace to live
Forever for one more day of our existence.

Along the cusp of the sun’s moon shadows
Out on the run, sung for love of words…
Beauty reigns magnificently drawn out
Of clouds covering up blue skies… shining
Hope in faith heard, felt and seen in truth’s
Prevailing soul forevermore.

Brave as one can possibly be… for eyes
In spirit of countenance for changing times.
Heartfelt subliminal sublime -arise in hope’s
Success of all- out of earth shattering promises,
Vis-a-vis! Holding to passions artfully!

DRUNK IN MY PASSION THROUGH THESE PAINFUL NIGHTMARES
Judas and Delilah!

This is extremely humiliating, trying to tackle these severe problems that has thrown me off the edge, out into the distance of dark hearted space. Relative to no one yet to be seen. When dreams don’t mean anything to people stealing your peace. That fake every reasonable belief across the western landscape for the world-at-large. No gifts left that they wouldn’t steal for free gratis of villainy. Impervious to feelings what is real? When brutal lies are compelling for trying to have the courage in strength of confessional rights.

However lain aside, when there are no innocent eyes left to recall. Dead in the spirit, they collude in stealth’s wicked duplicity. That overwhelms me, when people feel no contrition of guilt for their cold blooded crimes, that vilify my conscience in depth of all spying eyes.

They burglarize and bare false witness against me with malice aforethought. Fraud is their specialty, for how evil they can be. That’s left me with no mother, father, sisters, brothers, or a wife that hasn’t feigned their love, chasing after their stolen ‘American Dreams.’ Pariah predators. I’ve had to escape with my life. After they have already severely attacked me. In every way that is a shocking outrage. When nobody is listening, not even when I was a child, raising myself up out of these pits of despair’s blocked memories. For whose God that break every commandment known to man, woman and child?

It hurts like hell on holidays. Especially on Easter and Christmas. It amazes me how people can praise the Lord, then use religion as a weapon to cover up the truth, while they sleep together in their abominable beds. Gone unchallenged, except by my standing up against them, ripping me off for people who end up with household names. Which makes me feel like nothing in society for the laws I follow, but they break with impunity. Leaving me without safety. Making my life a living hell! Perhaps I’ll eventually be heard, felt and seen.

As a visual artist and writer that has written hundreds upon hundreds of lyrics. When writing was my only outlet to release my pain. While they would steal my writing for others to sing, making a great deal of money. Which started with my mother who would continually lie against me, setting me up to take these tremendous falls. When I was sexually, physically, and verbally abused as a child, leaving me empty handed, devoid of honest friendship.

But I can no longer block the pain, like I was forced to as a child. However, for what rights of wicked denial? What confession to be good for the soul? Or the truth to set me free from Judas and Delilah as thick as thieves in family like the Mafia for politicians and the entertainment industry. Subliminal. Sublime. Up to whom out of terror of treacherous minds?

Salutations for Signatures Refined…
Across the Planet for Humane Dignity!

Compelling To The Nights Shoring Up Wounds!

Through “Grapes of Wrath” villainy disdained!
-Marvel at magic’s alchemy-
For a silver thread up to Heaven’s Gate,
In poetic verse beyond restraints…
Tilling the soil in breadth of substantiation
In hearth of heartache’s relief.
Calling out of the distance echoed
Off walls of primordial affairs -stalled by
Compliance in depth of artist merits.
No longer mortified. But relied on… pictured
In breath of the air that we breathe sustained.

Flying through windows in safety’s eye of
The soul in sight of the spirit’s development.
Although, past those whom brutalize the
Innocence in birth of one’s own Rights
To live for sanctity’s beauty worn up
No body’s sleeve -transparently-
For causes of truth’s wisdom in thoughts
Mindful of who we are for Humanity’s Being.
Beyond ‘sly wits’ that manipulate laws -outside-
Of Peace of the sword… sworn by the word!

Double edged -slippery slope- in light of
Confessions discerned, forevermore, knocking
On hearts that beat the drums in cadence of art.
Compelling to the nights shoring up wounds in
Island dreams off the coast of continental divides.
Reaching out beyond despair, profound to those
Whom veritably care for the risk in bounty of
Enlightenment spared… for love beautified.
In nexus of test of countenance dared… for
No shadow of doubt for clarity realized here!

Innocence Lost

Behind The Mask

Child Abuse

Awakening

Peace at hand of soul in mind to surface out of art sublime.
Refined in conscience verified -beyond the pain- that’s
Sacrificed. Along the lines of hope to dream for one’s own
Heart in heart of self-esteem. Inherent recovery copiously
-Expatiating feelings- righteously discerned in faith beyond
Make believe. Reality strikes in depth of shattered dreams
To live for beauty seen. Grasping hands transparently for
Enlightening soul searching in wisdom’s goals in trust to
Find its way. In shadows of the darkness slain for fear in
Conquered peace. I save in love to dream the night away
For its last est awakening.

ART’S ABYSS

Nobody can relate to my problems. However, I’ve been burglarized on several occasions. Falsely accused of wife-beating in a court of law in Chicago, when I wasn’t there to defend myself. Although this was back in 1973 I’ve been trying to remove this because it slanders my character. Which goes to motive of why I was falsely accused in the first place.

I could have died on several occasions. Bleeding out my life’s blood, while people were ripping off my intellectual property as a lyrical-poet-songwriter. Sense childhood! Because it was family helping those in the music industry and because I was abused as a child this was extremely hard for me to deal with. Years ago because of these shocking circumstances I’ve severed all ties with family whom have set me up to take these tremendous falls.

I’ve pleaded on deaf ears as an American Citizen, feeling disenfranchised out of society -thrown to the wolves of pariah predators- in name of family with those whom have household names with those in the music industry. That ripped me off up close and personally.

When evil rules the earth were are any benevolent angels? When people with malice aforethought get off scot-free with impunity because they are rich and famous, where does that leave me? But defenseless. When my character can be slandered by the powers-that-be, that are immune to feelings, where are the laws to protect me?

When no one has any shame left, nor any sense of moral outrage, humanity is lost to the world-at-large, when conscience dies along the lines of sole bravery to survive. I’ve been fighting this for years without anyone honestly on my side. When the power of money becomes one greedy affair after another.

Then there is nothing left but terror’s treachery, behind the scenes that mortifies the humane spirit trying to survive in light of some cherished hope, beyond someone’s far gone conclusion of heretical mystery… however, in depth of art’s soul searching ability. “Conscience Nurtured by Truth,” whom shall I be able to talk to for joie de vivre?

With ‘The Birthday Gift,’ I tried to tell an important story while entertaining the audience.  I wanted to bring awareness to the subject of child sexual abuse, without seeming like a PSA or propagandist about it.  Weaving the story of Hilary Parker took a period of two years.  Writing the initial draft took less than a week, and that became a starting board for my research about the subject, and figuring out how to tell the story in the best way possible.  Once my second draft was ready, director Marie Tang and I worked very closely in shaping the script and getting it ready for shooting.

As a writer, all I can hope is that people find something good in the story, my writing, and of course, the film as a whole.  A lot of people worked very hard to tell this story, and they did it in very little time.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have the luxury of a four or five day shoot.  With five separate locations, and only a 2 and a half day shooting schedule, we scrambled to get everything done and tell the story in an effective way.  I can only hope we succeeded.

While I can’t speak for everyone involved, I can say I am very proud of this film, and what we’ve all accomplished with it.